Roommate
by scribbled.ink
Summary: "Room number 221b, East Campus dormitory building. This was it. That was what the paper had said. He turned the doorknob. Yeah, he really hoped a couple wasn't making out in there." John Watson isn't exactly excited for college, or meeting his roommate, Sherlock Holmes. But, he had to admit, the guy did have some nice cheekbones; so there was that. College AU, Oneshot.


He glanced at the paper one last time.

_221b._

That was what the plaque on the door said, at least.

But- maybe he had the wrong room. What if he walked in and there was a couple making out on the floor? What if this was an all girls dorm? He hadn't seen any guys walking around, despite the dormitory being co-ed.

Room number 221, second floor _b_, East Campus dormitory building. This was it.

He turned the doorknob.

He really hoped a couple wasn't making out on the floor.

* * *

><p>The was a hint of honeydew that coated gently over the pumpkin spice scent that engulfed the room the room. It was quite obvious that the pumpkin spice scent came from the Pumpkin Spice candle that had visible races of regular use, but John had a strong suspicion that the honeydew was the room's natural smell- which would've been quite odd- and there would always be a trace of it. Now, it wasn't overwhelming or anything, but it was very obvious what the smell was when he walked in; and John wasn't complaining about it either. It was a nice blend. It was just that... it was there.<p>

There were two beds, located on the two opposite sides of the room. There was a gap between the bed and the wall, where a desk was, and on the other side was a long slide door closet. The closet ran deep into the wall, almost far enough as to where you could place the rails on the sides and have a walk-in. John decided he like the closet. He was probably going to be spending most of his time in there, reading.

Turning slightly, he kicked the door closed and walked to one of the beds, setting down his three boxes and suitcase on the sheets.

There was a window, he couldn't tell if you could open it or not, and a small rack for shades above it. He probably should've brought some, like his mother said. Scooting up to the window, he looked out. It wasn't like in the movies, the campus didn't have rolling green hills, beautiful trees and beaming students walking around. He frowned. It was the East Campus parking lot.

"Go figure." He opened a box and grabbed six notebooks, setting them on the desk next to his old blue PC. They were out in the open, easily accessible by his roommate- if he had one, they had better get there quickly- for thorough examination into his private life, but he didn't mind. Who was going to care about his crappy notebooks anyway? All six were a random green, with a number 1 through 6 written on the front.

Each was chalk full of stories, scenarios, varying in length. It was sloppily written in a unbreakable code he knew as his handwriting, and he knew no one would understand the way he wrote; but they were _his_ and that was what mattered.

He took the wooden chair at the desk and placed it at the foot of his bed. Then, he pulled out a camping chair, a plain old camping chair. But that was the chair he used to write, the chair he used to read, the chair he used to think, and work, an pull all-nighters. He hoped his roommate didn't love sleeping. Maybe he'd have to put the chair in the closet, not that he minded.

Someone rapped on the door quietly, and opened the door. "John Watson?"

John turned around and saw a small girl with red hair. She was most likely a freshman, like him. He checked his room assignment again, briefly. This girl was short, and fragile and girl importantly, a girl. This couldn't possibly be his roommate. Was he honestly sleeping in the same room as a _girl? _Wasn't there a rule, or something against that?

"Are you Sherlock..." John looked down again, getting the last name, "Holmes?" He was a little bit disappointed and confused, he didn't have to share a room with a _girl_ the whole year, did he? Did his voice crack? John hoped his voice didn't crack.

"Nah. Sherlock is coming up right now, I think. I ran into him in the parking lot. He's really tall, right? Black hair, cheekbones like swords, 'cause I think that's him. If not, then I'm pretty sure I just called a random person Sherlock, and said hi. He's really handsome, too. I don't know if you swing that way or anything, but I'm sure you'll get along just fine." John raised an eyebrow, and Molly sighed. "Sorry. I'm a talker," she laughed slightly, attempting to lighten the mood. John didn't laugh. "I'm Molly Hooper. I'm right across the hall," she pointed out the door, behind her. "You have an Creative Writing class with me with Professor Hartman, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I wanted to say hi."

"Oh. Hi, Molly. It's nice to meet you." John really just wanted to be alone. _Please leave._

"Oh, was I interrupting you? I could leave, I'm probably interrupting . This must be awkward. I'm just- I'm going to leave, now. Yeah, okay. So sorry to interrupt, John." As quickly as her voice became confident and annoyingly intrusive, it became quiet and shy. John almost laughed at the hilarity of it.

"It's alright, thanks for stopping by." _Please leave, now. _

"Okay. See you Tomorrow." _Like, right now._

"Bye, Molly." _Bye bye bye bye bye._

"Uh alright. Bye, John." Molly smiled brightly, and turned around abruptly, walking out the door.

Turning back to his desk, he frowned. He was really hungry- like, 'I could eat a horse' hungry.' When was the last time he ate, anyway...? Standing up, he picked up his ID and walked out to the hall, stuffing the plastic into his back pocket. Where was the dining hall? Or more importantly, the library?

Crying mothers and distressed fathers were hugging their children and pulling box after box of what was probably lamps and rugs and posters into the dorms. He glanced back to his three boxes and suitcase. Granted, his family wasn't that rich anyway, but it still felt weird. He had gotten into this school on a full scholarship- it was a three hour plane ride away from home, but it was better than community college.

Everyone was dressed nice, with expensive jewelry and curly hair and polo's and dresses. Every person in the hall could have had "You might hate me but my dad will sue you." written across their shirts because maybe it wasn't obvious enough yet, in their minds. After a quick glance, he knew that the only way out was by shoving past however many people were there, and that didn't look very fun.

Suddenly insecure and very claustrophobic, John rushed back inside.

Lunch could wait.

* * *

><p>For about ten minutes, John sat, writing out the small details he notice about his room, into one of the notebooks, labeled '#6' Sitting in the chair, with his feet, with his shoes still on, on the bed. Well, he was attempting to write. Nothing was coming to mind.<p>

Back at home, he could write thousands of words at moments notice, if he wanted, because, well it was home. Here, with thousands of other graduates around him and hundreds of people living under the same roof as him, he simply felt like an intruder. This wasn't home; this was a temporary shelter, during his years of college. This was a tiny room with two beds and low ceilings and a parking lot outside the window. The feelings weren't the same.

So, he sat there, thinking. About nothing, really, considering he wanted to postpone this new phase of life for as long as possible, but still, he thought.

Then, a large, heavy set man came two his door. He had asked, scratch that, he had shouted, if "Mike's dorm was here," because "Karla wanted to say goodbye" and what not. After an eternity of moments and multiple attempts to reason with the man, John got the point across that this was 221_b_, and "Mike" was in 221_c_.

Of course, as soon s he sat back down, a crying woman had asked if her son was there. It had taken John two whole minutes to reason with her, and get her to calm down.

"Please tell me this is a joke," he drawled out, falling face first onto his bed.

"It isn't."

John sprang from his bed, and came face to face (well, face to shoulder) with _very_ tall male. He had blue eyes and black, curly hair. Assuming by his extremely noticeable cheekbones Molly pointed out, this had to be Sherlock.

"Sherlock? Holmes, Sherlock Holmes?" John asked mentally slapping himself with a wooden stick for stuttering.

The man he nodded. "Yes. You are John Watson, I presume." John nodded.

John shifted his glance to the four boxes Sherlock must have set down on the other bed before talking to John. Two of them were opened, and, well, there were more books crammed in the boxes than there were fast food joints in America. He liked to read, obviously.

So, this guy was smart. And not to forget, the man John would be sharing a room with for nine months. John had to make a good impression, he was smart too! But, this guy was intimidating. He had said what, ten words in the minute since they met and already John felt like a brainless newt.

This was his time to redeem himself. He just needed to say something intellectual, and make his hopeful friend like him, no matter how much he hated company.

"You're tall." Aaaaaand there he went, down the rabbit hole into the world of idiots. Real smooth. I'm sure Sherlock thinks your a genius, now.

"I am six foot one. Not as tall as you would think, John." Sherlock, looking blatantly bored, scanned his eyes across the, eyes lingering on John himself bit longer than necessary. "The dining hall is right next to this building, on the left. The crowds outside have dwindled slightly, and I assume that most families have gone out to eat one last meal together. The hall shouldn't be too chaotic," the last few sentences Sherlock has spoken completely normally. John stared at his roommate.

"What?"

"You're hungry."

"How could you possibly know-"

"You didn't eat on the plane, and your family never came with you," Sherlock paused, before adding, "I'm sorry abut your father." The room was silent for a moment.

"How on earth could you have known that?"

"It was quite obvious."

"Clearly not. To me, at least," John raised an eyebrow, and before Sherlock could reply, his stomach growled, rather loudly.

"I would explain, but you sound famished. Let's eat, shall we?"

John frowned, but nodded. Silently, he followed Sherlock to the dining hall.

Later that night, Molly stopped by again. This time, she was a lot more shy than when she had talked to John earlier, but, nevertheless, she had surprisingly made good company. I Sherlock had noticed her small "crush" on him, he didn't make it known.

Later that night, John sat in his chair reading while Sherlock layed lay on his bed, typing on his computer.

"Hey, Sherlock, what are you majoring in?"

The black haired man looked up, and replied, monotonously, "Criminal Law." John nodded, sad that he hadn't continued the conversation, and looked back down at his book. Sherlock sighed, probably noticing John's what-ever, figuring out his exact thoughts. (The man noticed _everything_.) "What about you , John?"

"My major isn't exactly what I want."

"What do you mean?"

"I had wanted to join the army, originally."

"Impossible, you have a limp that even blind people can notice. You wouldn't be a reliable asset," Sherlock had spoken without regret, and John almost laughed at the honesty.

Had it been anyone else, John probably would've been hurt, but this was _Sherlock. _In the few hours since John had met him, Sherlock had become, to John's bewilderment, a friend. There was something about Sherlock, that, John couldn't pin point it. But, there was something; something that made Sherlock different from any person he had ever met. And, no, it wasn't just the cheekbones.

John had to admit, he rather liked his new roommate.

* * *

><p><strong>I don't really know why I wrote this, but here it is. :)<strong>


End file.
